


Human Beings

by orphan_account



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Also I love writing in the second person, Angst, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Exactly no one asked for this but I wrote it anyway, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I just like angst I guess, I specifically don't use pronouns in this so it is a true reader-insert, I'm sorry everybody, Mental Health Issues, Minor Discussion on Purging, Other, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Substance Abuse, Teacher/Student Dynamics, genderless reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You’re obviously the only other person in the room with an alcohol problem.In which Ian Duncan is less of an asshole than usual, and you are a goddamn wreck. Things have to get worse before they get better, but they will get better. Probably.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Exactly no one asked for this, but I wrote it anyway. Sorry everybody ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

You’re obviously the only other person in the room with an alcohol problem.

He comes stumbling in with some excuse, and you sit there with your hangover haze, your breath spiked with some fresh whiskey, and you wish this man in front of you didn’t give you a sick feeling in your stomach. 

“Now, I’m not going to say I don’t know what this week’s lesson is about, but you know,” he slurs, writing, ‘ _what???_ ,’ on the board in some kind of careless scrawl.

You laugh, only because you can’t believe that someone you look up to can get away with the things you are hiding.

He has to notice because, honestly, the way your dull, out of focus eyes fixate on the chalk board is obvious to anyone who has felt the same way. You hate it. You wish you didn’t keep doing this. But, unlike other teachers who just think you stayed up too late, Duncan could probably figure out that you’re just succumbing to an addiction that college students pretty much consider to be normal.

It’s fine. 

(Except it’s not because, like him, you took about three shots before going to class. You didn’t even have to blow under the legal limit because you live close enough to walk. So, you took an extra shot.) 

The worst is that you smell like Evan Williams, and you hate it.

“Now, listen. We’re talking about _human beings_ , so does anyone have anything to talk about regarding _human beings?_ ”

Duncan is embarrassing, and frankly, you are too, but you don’t talk too much when you’re fucked up at 11:30 in the morning. He has to.

You wonder what your own future is going to be like. Are you staring back at yourself—a blundering, drunk fool who's life is (most likely) in shambles?

(You try not to think about it too much.)

All you know is that Greendale is a fucking shithole, and the only way you can get through this damn class is to be trashed.

It's fine.

 

* * *

 

Something didn’t quite sit right with you.

After class, your stomach turns, and you feel your face flush and prickle.

(You know from experience that you’re going to be sick.)

So, before you can throw up on the floor, you sprint to the faculty bathrooms. It’s where you go to throw up when you’re too drunk or too hung over or you just feel like throwing up because you hate yourself. No one is in there most of the time, which is why it’s your bathroom of choice—quiet, out of the way, inconspicuous.

You slam the door open and throw up into the first stall you can get into, not even bothering to close the stall door.

That small pang hits you, the one that says ( _you have a problem_ ), but you push it down as you stand upright. It could be worse. 

And—don't worry—it is.

“Are you alright?” 

You whip around to see none other than Professor Duncan himself. His words aren’t clear and his face is flushed with alcohol, and you hate everything about this current situation.

“O-Oh, sorry,” you say for not the last time today.

He studies you (as well as he can while compromised). You start to remember that, while you take his Anthropology class, he is a psychologist by trade, and he is probably analyzing you. You picked a good day to show up to school wasted; although, needing to vomit has sobered you up a bit. 

Before he has a chance to respond, you rush out of the bathroom to find another place to feel sorry for yourself.

But, while you are good at repressing your emotions, you are not good at letting people know you’re not perfect, so maybe that’s why you're going to find yourself in front of a particular office door.

 

* * *

 

Your classes are over for the day, and now that you’re slightly less drunk, you wonder if you should talk to the man who is in similar straits as you. You so desperately don't want him to think badly of you, but your mind and body are telling you that this is no good.

You knock anyway.

His voice comes out muffled from behind the door. You don’t understand what he’s saying, but you open the door regardless.

When he turns his chair around to look at who has entered his office, he sees that it is not a close friend or colleague, and he tries to hide his glass of wine.

“Oh, hello.”

“Hi,” you say, looking away as if you hadn’t seen anything.

“What is it I can do for you?” His words are slurring. 

You don’t know where to start—do you bring up that you are also perpetually intoxicated? Do you ask about a question from the textbook that no one in this room owns? Do you fumble through an apology and run away again? None of the options seem like a good idea. Talking out your ass will have to do. 

“So, you’re drinking, huh?” 

He doesn’t look all that different after you make the accusation.

“I mean, I’m not supposed to say this, but obviously,” Duncan says, that self-deprecating laugh he has rising up in his throat.  

You already feel like a fish out of water. You wish you had a reason for being in his office, but you don’t. You made the decision without thinking it through, and now, you look fucking stupid. 

"O-Oh, yeah that's—um—”

(You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your head, and you can feel your stomach turning, and you probably shouldn’t feel like your vision is a little weird, but, y’know—)

In an instant, his demeanor changes—grows more serious, and your body reacts to this strangely. Instead of keeping yourself together, you realize you’re going to completely fall apart.

“Are you alright?” he asks for the second time that day. He’s about to get up from his chair, but he is half way up when he pauses and shoots you a look of actual fear.

You wish you could actually answer truthfully, but it’s obvious that you can’t. Your insides are twisted up, and you hate that you are standing there—half-sober, confused, and vulnerable—and you question all your life decisions up to this point.

(Your entire body feels like it’s disintegrating—you want to die—why can’t you _just die_ —?) 

( _ ~~Why don’t you just die, already?~~_ ) 

“Oh, _fuck_ —”

You hear him try to say something, but your mind doesn’t stick around to hear the end of it.

 

* * *

 

You find yourself on a couch, head throbbing every time you open your eyes. You blink once—twice—three times. 

(You find that you’re having a hard time staying conscious.) 

Fortunately, Duncan makes it clear that you should probably be awake. 

“— _Shit_ , I mean, should you go to the hospital?”

“No,” you choke out, but you only do this because you don’t know what’s going on.

When your eyes focus, you realize that your teacher is hovering above you. He looks worried, which makes you feel slightly better, but also, you feel a certain amount of despair because he’s the antithesis of what you want to be in the future, and yet— 

“ _Okay_ ,” he mutters, leaning away from you slightly, sauvignon blanc on his breath. “Then, what the hell was that?”

“Sorry.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “I guess, I don’t take good care of myself.”

That’s an understatement.

He looks at you carefully, tiny creases appearing in between his brows.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

And, then, he’s back to analyzing you, looking at the dark circles under your eyes, the lifelessness of your skin, the small dips in your collarbone, the scabs on your knuckles, and his eyes illuminate because he thinks he has you all figured out.

(Maybe he’s better at knowing yourself than you are.)

“You’re bulimic.” Because he is drunk, his tact is lacking, but since it’s just the two of you, it doesn’t really bother you. “Have you had anything to eat or drink since you vomited last?”

“Alcohol.” 

Another look of illumination washes over him, and you feel incredibly small/ ~~huge,~~ and you would rather it all end right now than have this conversation with Ian fucking Duncan.

“Sorry,” you say again, sitting up on the couch and practically knocking him over. Your head swims from the change in position, and tiny black spots threaten to pull you back into unconsciousness. Fortunately, Duncan's drunken drawl is enough to keep you in the land of the living.

“No, it’s quite alright. You seem to apologize for more than you need to,” he says, eyes shifting focus between the floor and the ceiling awkwardly.

(In that moment, you realize how much of a _fucking loser_ you are, and maybe if you took control of your life, you would understand that you don’t even deserve this sort of amnesty.)

( _ ~~You only deserve to die.~~_ )

He’s a psychologist, and yet, he balks when you begin to cry. 

“Oh, shit.” 

Wrong, wrong, wrong—this is the worst thing you could have done. You are mortified because your cheeks are wet with hatred and shame.

(Maybe you aren’t as sober as you thought. Thank your flask in your backpack pocket.)

“ _Sorry._ ”  

“Don’t say that,” Duncan says, a hand rubbing his eyes. He’s stressed. You are, too. Obviously.

“How do you do it?” you say against your better judgment. “How do you get through the day?” 

He looks surprisingly vulnerable when he says, “I don’t know. I don’t, usually.”

That wasn't the answer you were looking for, but despite yourself, hot tears still plop on your lap.

“Were you purging this morning, or…?”

“No. I was hungover—I mean, drunk—or both.”

“Well, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. I may be a psychologist, but I don't exactly take my own advice, y'know.”

You feel your stomach bottom out at that, and you wish you had never spoken a word in your life.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Why do you keep saying that? Being—like this—it’s not your fault, or my fault,” he says, clearly exasperated. If he is more professional in counseling sessions (you doubt it), he’s certainly not showing it. “Eating disorders have a high comorbidity with substance abuse. If anything, you have a normal presentation, for whatever that’s worth.” 

“I thought maybe you could help.”

“I’m not entirely sure what you want me to do.”

That makes you cry again.

“Wait, wait, wait. Don’t do that. Don’t cry.”

You find it hard to stop, tears spilling out of you faster than you can quite register. Your hands go up to catch them, but they have been running for a good time, now. Maybe that’s why Duncan looks so damn uncomfortable.

He gets up and sits next to you on the couch, placing a hand on your shoulder. If you were looking at him, you could see the wheels turning in his head, as if he were trying to figure out what to say to get you to stop sobbing in his office.

“If it makes you feel any better, I keep falling off the wagon, too. Obviously.” He pushes his shaggy bangs to the side. He’s sweating, but whether it’s from nervousness or something else, you can’t tell. “Being addicted to anything _sucks_ , and even though it may look like I’m all hunky-dory with my life, I’m not.” 

You find yourself feeling a slight pang in your chest, but you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s empathy, maybe it's pity, maybe it’s something else altogether.

“I may be a drunken fool, but even I can tell that you’re better than you think you are. You’re intelligent and observant and—well, if I may say—very attractive, and I know you probably don’t see it, and having me say it doesn’t make it any better, but—”

He sucks in a breath, like his words have gotten away from him, and just says: “If anything, you’re not alone.” 

Duncan has reached his limit of being helpful, so he shuts up.

You realize that you have been stunned into silence, no tears flowing anymore. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s because you’re still woozy from fucked up electrolytes, but you feel like you can’t breathe. You haven’t really felt like this for a while—not since high school, at least—but you don’t necessarily mind.

He laughs at your reaction.

“Thought I couldn’t be a grown up for once?”

“Honestly, kind of.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, neither did I.”

Duncan laughs again. He’s full of those all of a sudden. It lightens the mood and makes you feel a little better.

“Let’s get you some Gatorade or something so you don’t pass out on the way home.” Against his better judgment, he winks, and the tiny action jolts your entire body. “Whoa, wait, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way—” he pauses when he turns to look at you, “—Are you blushing?”

Are you?

You touch your cheek, and it is slightly warm.

“ _No_ ,” you lie.

“Okay, you were concerning me for a second there.” But, the small smile that he forgets to hide tells you that you both are in on the joke, and even though you aren’t entirely sure why you feel the way you feel, you don’t exactly mind.

When he leaves the room, you smile to yourself, cheeks still red.

Maybe Greendale Community College isn’t such a shithole. Well, it is, but now you have at least one class to look forward to.

 

 


End file.
